Fantastic Hearts and When to Trust Them (2)

Stranger than Friendship

Celia slipped on the damp concrete of the city square and hastily righted herself, clutching her case under one arm and attempting to tie her apron with her spare hand and what remained of the busy one. Somehow she expected the street signs here to show the same change in language she experienced listening to everyone. The street signs were on the left side of the street, which took some getting used to. Worst was remembering which side of the sidewalk to run on—it seemed Celia was always running. She'd leave an hour early for the next class, to compensate. Something always seemed to get in her way. Perhaps she should stop wearing heels, even if the low ones she favored didn't catch cracks nearly as well as the narrower ones some women preferred.

Muttering a curse as she stumbled over who-knows-what, Celia clutched her case even closer and hurried on—the pastry school she'd been invited to attend for six weeks was only a few blocks away. She'd walked this path the afternoon before, just so she knew the route. London may be more racially accepting than New York, but it was still a stranger to her.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry," she gasped, squeezing between a few women at a bus stop.

"Not to worry," an older woman chuckled, eyeing her haste with amusement. Her eyes followed Celia as she managed her way through the last of the pedestrians. Celia had only been here a couple of days, but she'd noticed the white people here acted different from those at home in a variety of ways. They didn't look at her with spite, but they certainly looked. It disconcerted her. She'd been a shadow at home—here they acted like she was the only person casting one.

Celia tripped into a trot again, freed from the thickest of those on the streets, and with a grin hurried forth, nearly at the end of the block.

She heard a conversation before she slid around the corner, but was too distracted to pay it proper respect. As a result when the first of the speakers rounded the corner at the same time as she meant to, she crashed into the lanky fellow in the front, tipping sidelong but catching herself before striking the two women with him. "Oh I'm so sorry!" She yanked her case in close to her again.

He'd snapped out a hand to catch her by the elbow, eyes wide as he steadied her. "Celia?"

"I'm in a hurry, I'm sorry!"

"Miss Green!" the blonde woman trilled, and Celia realized she recognized the two women. "What are you doing in London?"

Celia didn't slow, but quickly crossed the street. The women darted across after her first. "How do you know my name?"

After a pause, the blue-coated man hastened over as well.

"We're from New York, too! Well, Tina and I. Newt here's in his home city, in London. We've been to your bakery!"

Celia took a second glance at them, clutching her case close to her leg, and flashed the women a smile. "I remember the two of you."

"I—I had to go home," Newt said, walking behind them, head slightly slanted to one side. "I only got to visit once." He flashed a hesitant smile. "Orange pastries and cream puffs. I think I went away with more than I'd meant to, but I've forgotten what else."

Celia couldn't resist discussion about food, particularly hers. "When'd you come in?"

"About six months ago," he swiftly replied. "November."

"I'd only just opened then."

The blonde lady grinned, patting Celia's elbow. "We know, honey, we come in once a week!"

Celia nodded; it had taken her a moment to put the two back into the context from which she knew them. "Cinnamon tidbits," she said, nodding to the blonde. She then looked to the brunette, who was also smiling. "Peach cobbler. Got a touch of the southern Belle in you, eh, Miss?"